


Happiness Is A Warm Puppy

by Anonymous



Category: Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: Alien Biology, Alt Form Sex, Alt-Mode Sexual Interfacing, Alternate Universe, BDSM overtones, Bestiality, Breeding, Dogformers, Knotting, M/M, Non-Sexual Breastfeeding, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Puppies, Sticky Sexual Interfacing, Submissive!Prowl, Transformer Sparklings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-22
Updated: 2020-09-22
Packaged: 2021-03-07 17:15:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,305
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26591263
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: When he quit his job so they could move the pack from Iacon to their new territory near Polyhex, Prowl had expected his demotion from pack provider to Jazz’s bitch to be a hardship.
Relationships: (implied) Ricochet/Prowl, Jazz/Prowl
Comments: 4
Kudos: 61
Collections: Anonymous





	Happiness Is A Warm Puppy

**Author's Note:**

> Beta’d by… also anonymous.

The pack was staying safely out of reach, content to let the drama unfold without coming close enough to get bitten. Jazz had started chasing them off three orns ago, including Ricochet. Especially Ricochet. The twins shared everything… except this.

It was almost time again. Curled up on his bed of pillows and mats and coverlets, anticipation coiled in Prowl’s frame as he rested, saving his strength for what he knew would come. Nearby, Jazz sniffed the edges of the room, ignoring the pile of nursing puppies and their dam, sleeping on his own bed of blankets and cushions. When he came to the two older sparklings, both in primary forms that wouldn’t have looked out of place in Iacon or Praxus, he stopped to sniff and lick at them affectionately, but did not wake them. He wasn’t quite avoiding Prowl, but he wasn’t coming closer yet. It wasn’t because he was nervous, or unsure of his reception. Prowl had tried calling him over to reassure him and cuddle or get him to just frag before, but he never did. He was in the grip of instinct, and his instincts said that a mech in heat would attack if approached too soon, but he also wouldn’t leave and risk another sneaking in and taking his prize. 

Prowl, of course, might have been in oestrous, but he wasn’t in heat. He wasn’t a beastformer. He would have liked his mate to be here with him, even pleasuring him, while the perfect moment came and went without notice, but after three vorns here in the wilds, he had learned he couldn’t argue with Jazz’s instincts. He could smell that Prowl was getting ready to spark, and there were potential competitors, and he was in the grip the tense waiting game that only existed inside his processor.

It would have been lonely, with Jazz the only one allowed to come close to him and him too busy chasing off the others to pay attention to Prowl, if it weren’t for the puppies. 

Vehicle mechs almost never had more than two sparklings at a time, and usually only one, and thus only had two nozzles for feeding the fragile new lives. With his abdominal plating removed, the hoses uncoiled from his fuel tank, around his clear plastic gestation sack, and out where two puppies were latched onto the spouts, suckling at the trickle of fuel. Prowl’s nozzles didn’t need to be stimulated by the puppies’ tiny milk teeth, but the prickling pain was relaxing. It wasn’t quite a sexual feeling, but it was similar to the floaty feeling he sometimes got during sex. Neither of the puppies feeding from his nozzles right now were his. His two, almost a full vorn apart in age but growing slowly compared to their more canine kin, were both finally too old. The younger had only been weaned for a few quartexes. The pack thought he spoiled them, keeping them in the creche much longer than they kept their own pups, but Prowl knew they weren’t ready. Instead, they helped him in the creche, caring for their half-siblings. There were always more puppies to care for, and Prowl didn’t mind supplementing their feedings with his nozzles between his own pregnancies. 

It would have been different if Prowl had still been the pack provider.

Back when the pack had only been the three of them and Prowl still worked at the police department, a filing clerk, and his had been their only official income, he had taken some vacation time and left Jazz and Ricochet to their begging and their busking to take a trip to Polyhex. 

They had never been sure, but their hazy memories of being puppies and Prowl’s incomplete research had them all thinking that their dam had probably been from the wild areas around Polyhex. An illegal immigrant to Iacon prostituting herself to survive, she had whelped her two halfbreeds, Jazz and Ricochet, in a storage shed and they had spent their early vorns in their alternate forms, thinking they really were puppies, not mechs. After, they had continued to live on the streets, but where dogs couldn’t go to homeless shelters and free clinics, mechs could. Mechs could also earn money begging and busking, and go into stores to buy their fuel, though dogs didn’t get in as much trouble for sifting through trash. They had never been quite sure of their origins. They had never been comfortable in Iacon, where they had to hide their beast forms or be thought monsters. 

And Prowl had been curious. 

So he’d taken his trip to Polyhex. Nervous, he’d stuck to the glittering tourist areas at first, sampling supposedly beastformer style foods. Then he’d worked up the courage to step off the beaten path. He’d gotten in trouble immediately. He knew Jazz and Ricochet utilized scent more than vehicle mechs, but he’d been blindsided when the scent they’d left on him — over a decaorn old by that point! — had attracted the attention of a local gang pack who had thought he was sniffing out the edges of their territory. 

Prowl still wasn’t sure how he’d convinced them otherwise, but he’d gotten his unfiltered look at a Polyhexian beastformer pack. 

_”You’re his mate?” the gang’s alpha had scoffed. Prowl hadn’t been able to tell if his alt form was supposed to be canine or feline. Even living with Jazz and Ricochet — definitely canines — hadn’t prepared him to be able to tell. As halfbreeds, they didn’t have visible beast kibble when in primary form. “Can a little thing like you even hunt?”_

_Of course Prowl couldn’t._

_”Then you’re just a breeder.”_

_”If you don’t hunt, you whelp,” another tough had chimed in._

And _everyone_ who whelped, whelped the pack leader’s pups. It was one of the perks and purposes of being pack leader. The pack was also the alpha’s harem. 

Prowl had returned to Iacon, and his job, unsure what that all meant for his continued relationship with Jazz and Ricochet. He’d been glad, then, that living in Iacon was different. It wasn’t hunting, but he was the pack provider. The condominium was his, an inheritance from his own sire and carrier, who had retired to a large home at the edge of the city. Half their food budget came from his wages. And there were only the three of them. 

But then Jazz had brought home another homeless mech. A beastformer. A dogformer even, like them, though Shadowbite was not nearly as magnificent, in Prowl’s opinion. 

Shadowbite scavenged for his food, and had been unable to contribute to the household budget, and Prowl had prepared himself for what he’d known would happen. During Shadowbite’s heat, he and Jazz had copulated. They hadn’t been able to help themselves, though Prowl had found out later that they’d used condoms from Prowl’s stash to keep from sparking.

But now there were four of them, and Prowl knew that — even with the condoms — eventually their pack would be a litter of puppies bigger. Or they’d find other, adult, strays. He’d started making arrangements. He had been afraid of what the future would bring, but he had been determined to keep their pack together instead of letting it be crushed under a limited budget and Iaconi social norms.

Even if it meant he gave up his protected status within the pack. 

Breeder. Bitch. 

He realized he had dozed off when he felt Jazz’s familiar canine tongue laving his chevron, affectionate and stimulating. Prowl had been waiting for this and let himself moan, low and eager, as he woke. He had been stroking his collar in his sleep, and he let go to reach up for his lover, and both was and wasn’t surprised to feel the soft plastic tendrils that covered Jazz’s beast form. Usually, he and Ricochet bowed to Prowl’s preference and had sex while in primary, humanoid form, but they bred only in alt form. 

“Good morning, Jazz,” Prowl breathed, rolling over onto his back, submitting to his pack leader and mate. The pups had let go of his nozzles and they dangled out of his abdomen at the ends of their hoses as he moved. It always made him feel weak, small, and vulnerable to do this, especially while Jazz was in his magnificent and long-toothed canine form, but he felt it even keener now. In Iacon, when they’d met, Prowl had still had abdominal armor. But after weaning his first sparkling and finding himself still nursing his packmates’ pups, he hadn’t ever bothered to put the armor back on. His feeding nozzles weren’t the only parts of him on display. As Jazz sniffed down Prowl’s frame, he felt his mate’s warm breath caress the exposed part of his engine, his gestation sack, the tubing that attached his hustera to the bottom of his spark chamber. Prowl moaned again.

The moan turned to a squeal when Jazz licked the clear gestation sack. Usually it didn’t have much tactility, but with his frame preparing for the spark a network of wires and tubing had grown along the inside, making it very sensitive indeed. 

“Hi,” Jazz responded. Prowl could tell he was trying for the innocent, playful tones that characterized their usual lovemaking, but he couldn’t disguise the eager growl. It was instinct for him to want as many puppies as he could have. Prowl looked up at him with admiration. He was a big dog, massing the same as Prowl himself, and being on the ground before him made him look bigger. He was a beautiful dog too, with a long muzzle and small, triangular ears and a long ruff of silvery fur that was darker around his head. If this form emulated any specific breed, Prowl had never been able to find it. He had bright, blue optics in this form, which were always hidden from view by an optic band in his other. “Are you sure—?”

“Yes,” Prowl interrupted. Jazz was always sweet, chasing off competitors and copulating with the non-hunters when they went into heat, but he tried giving his pack members a choice of actually whelping or not. But while vehicle mechs only went into oestrous once a vorn, whether they sparked or not, unsparked beastformers went into heat every quartex, and they didn’t have many condoms left; someone would have to make the trek to the city to sell their hunted goods and buy supplies. Prowl preferred to save them for others. “Am I ready?”

“You smell ready,” Jazz said roughly, sticking his nose between Prowl’s legs to sniff, and Prowl barked a laugh. His valve had been moist and slick for orns, since Jazz had started circling, ready and waiting for what he knew would be coming. He hadn’t bothered closing the modesty plating, the anticipation and constant low-level arousal making it uncomfortable.

“Do you see the spark?” he insisted, moaning at his mate’s attentions. Prowl touched the flexible husteral membrane, felt the wires and tubes that had developed. Without abdominal armor, he could feel his frame’s readiness to grow a sparkling, but he couldn’t see over his bumper. 

Jazz stopped nudging the outer mesh of Prowl’s valve, pausing. “Yeah,” he answered. “I can see the spark.” 

A new spark, budded off of Prowl’s own, waiting and ready to be fertilized in his womb.

Moaning, Prowl rolled over and lifted himself to his hands and knees. It had taken quartexes to teach Jazz and Ricochet how to do proper foreplay. They just weren’t wired for it. It happened fast with beastformers.

Right now Prowl wanted fast. Hard. Feral and brutal. This wasn’t the gentle lovemaking between Jazz and his mate. This was the pack leader sparking up an otherwise useless pack member, and Prowl wanted to _feel_ small and broken and _full_ when he was done. He wasn’t useless to the pack. He _would_ breed. 

But when Prowl opened his mouth to say so, a paw as large as Prowl’s splayed hand pressed against his back. Jazz’s rough rubber traction pads were heavy on Prowl’s spinal struts, and blunt claws pricked against the bottom edge of one doorwing. Not pinning, not yet, but telling him in no uncertain terms to stay put, and all that came out of Prowl’s mouth was a moan. A rough tongue lapped at the unguent oozing from the rubber sphincter, spreading the efflux around to the engorged mesh around the valve opening. Such was Prowl’s anticipation, that his frame arched and lightning crackled around him, overloading. 

Prowl bent his arms, lowering his head to his hands in exhaustion. This wasn’t like him. He was usually such an active, attentive lover. Only this, only breeding time, reduced him to such a wanton, early climax.

Another time, he might have insisted on a moment to recover, but he didn’t. He just panted there, his frame trembling while the smell of his overload broke through Jazz’s reluctance. He climbed on top of Prowl to grab the collar in his teeth. Prowl had learned the very first time he’d fragged Ricochet that biting was not optional for dogformers. It had been easier to wear a collar, at first only during sex though now he rarely removed it at all, than to be constantly be buffing out teethmarks, even if their mech-form teeth couldn’t do much damage. 

Sometimes he had the thought of how ironic it was Jazz and Ricochet were the turbohounds, but it was Prowl in the collar, but it _felt right_ to be the one wearing it. He was the one who submitted. 

Of course, in mech form, Jazz couldn’t pick him up by the teeth and shake him as he did now, but Prowl didn’t struggle. He let it happen with a squeak, relishing how helpless it made him feel to be almost hanging from his mate’s jaws. He’d always liked lovers who could hold him down, and none did it quite as thoroughly as Jazz and Ricochet did. 

Pinning him by his grip on Prowl’s collar, Jazz climbed on top of him and rammed his spike into his barely-open valve. Prowl yelped, the sound morphing into a moan as Jazz’s legs locked around him, keeping him from even squirming. “Doggie” style hadn’t been been something he’d enjoyed before meeting the twins, but he’d very quickly learned to enjoy being mounted. 

Jazz started with slow, gentle thrusts after that first, harsh entry, but Prowl growled his own protest. He didn’t slow for his other breeders!

Fortunately, Jazz got the idea and let himself speed up to his natural, frantic pace. Prowl shook with the force each thrust, and the stretch of his unready valve lining burned. The soft slide of Jazz’s fur was comforting, and warm, and sensual. Everywhere, it covered Jazz’s hard form with pleasing softness, a sexual sensation unique to breeding as Jazz didn’t have fur in his primary form. But it was hard to appreciate it properly while pinned by the neck. The mixture of pleasure and pain, comfort and helplessness, simultaneously drove him closer and further from another overload.

He panted, tried to wiggle and rock to help himself to that second overload, which he knew he wouldn’t reach unless he let Jazz slow down, let the pleasure drown out the pain, but Jazz shook him by the collar and Prowl found all he could do was brace himself and take it. He whined, helpless and wanting. 

He was pounded into relentlessly, and it ached to be used so callously. Prowl knew it would be over soon. He wanted it over quickly, and dreaded it.

Then the base of Jazz’s spike, where it pushed in and out of the sphincter, started to swell. Prowl clawed at the floor, gasping and moaning and crying. The knot. He loved and loathed the knot. Jazz’s mech form had it too, and he took it regularly in their normal lovemaking. But not when he was still so tight! 

It was unstoppable though. In and out, becoming bigger and more painful with each thrust. Jazz had to push harder and harder to fully thrust into him as it quickly approached and then surpassed his his valve’s ability to stretch around it. If he could have, Prowl would have buried his head into the coverlets and pillows. He was crying fully now. It hurt. It hurt. It hurt. It hurt. Pleasure still buzzed through his system, denied, but all he could focus on was the massive thing being forced in and out of his delicate valve.

Then Jazz pushed his spike into Prowl once more, making Prowl cry out in pain, and when he tried to withdraw it locked. 

Jazz opened his jaws to howl as overload swept over him, and Prowl landed on the pillows with muffled yelp. 

He hissed as Jazz moved, but all his mate did was settle down on top of him. In his dog form, Jazz couldn’t wrap him in his arms and hold him close, but he cuddled into Prowl’s plating like a champ. 

The knot was uncomfortable at this point. It always was, even when Prowl had been properly stretched and prepared to the thing. He just wasn’t built for it. But, and this was the reason he’d come to enjoy the discomfort, they were locked together. Tied to Jazz or Ricochet, Prowl was never alone. 

Jazz licked at his doors, coaxing out sparks, and Prowl groaned at the frustrating arousal. “Stop that,” Prowl slurred. Just let his nerves calm, let arousal fade into floaty, safe exhaustion… 

Jazz stopped. “Did I hurt you?” he asked.

In the moment, it had been painful. Now, in afterglow, “No.” He let his optics switch off and he breathed, slow and steady, releasing tension. His frame ached. He felt… like he’d been bred. Jazz shifted slightly, making them more comfortable and he was able to relax further, but the knot still felt huge and intrusive in Prowl’s valve, much more so than during their normal lovemaking. Prowl wasn’t sure if it was just because of how fast Jazz penetrated his unprepared vulval opening, or if the knot was actually bigger during breeding. He did know it lasted longer. Usually he was free after a breem or two of cuddling, but tonight he was in for a long haul. To facilitate conception, breeding beastformers stayed locked together for several joors. They would be spending the night like this, and Jazz might climax once or twice more while they slept. By morning, when Prowl could crawl free, the transfluid would have settled in around the spark in his gestation sack and he’d be gravid again. 

He felt sleepy and lax with that knowledge. He wouldn’t be empty again until the husteral sack split open several quartexes from now…

Now that the grunting and howling was over, Prowl’s currently-youngest sparkling came over to curl into his plating and Prowl stroked him fondly. One of the puppies from the pile wiggled over, latching its teeth onto Prowl’s still dangling nozzles, and though he was exhausted and full he let a trickle of fuel flow to him. The city trained circuit medic who visited the packs’ various territories, and who had timed his visits to Jazz’s pack to occur early in Prowl’s parturition and then again when he was close to emergence, worried that Prowl was having trouble adapting to pack life. For his part, Prowl thought he was adapting very well. He was useless, but he would be pampered and kept as long as he was a good breeder. And…He breathed in the scent of his family — of Jazz, his fur and their just-finished procreation, his own sparkling and his canine step-sparkling — which he would breed for and nurse for the rest of his life and felt content with that. 

It was his place in the pack.

End.


End file.
